One More Chapter (One-shots)
by emma.stewart.jess.darcy
Summary: One-shots about the MDBC characters. Disclaimer: the MDBC and its content all belong to Heather Vogel Frederick.
1. Chapter 1-It Rains Every Day

These are a collection of one-shots (maybe two or three-parters, if things go well) about the MDBC couples. Thanks for reading! Disclaimer: MDBC and its characters belong to Heather Vogel Frederick.

**One-Shot One: It Rains Every Day**

**Jess's POV**

I stare at the cold, hard ground that's currently being soaked. I rub my eyes, which are red tired from working so hard at Juilliard, and continue walking home. My feet only make a faint whisper on the sidewalk against the rhythmic rain. The world seems grey, like an old movie.

Thinking of old movies reminds of Movie Madness back at Colonial Academy, where all my friends would meet up on Friday nights and watch black-and-white movies with my host parents. I miss all my Colonial Academy friends, like Frankie and Adele and especially Savannah Sinclair. Colonial Academy was my home for four years, and I miss it terribly.

Home is where the heart is, they say, but mine is lonely and desolate. It's a small apartment far off campus. I guess I wanted a change of pace from Colonial Academy's boarding-school style, but I realize what a stupid mistake that was. These days, I have to take the bus home when my classes are over, but I missed _my_ bus because I stopped to ask Professor Relz about my grade.

I'm majoring in math, because I want to be a teacher someday. Teaching at college, high school, or any school would be great, but I'm still a freshman, so I still have a really long way to go, especially with teachers like Professor Relz.

Professor Relz is the coldest, hardest person I've even dealt with. Her stony blue eyes remind me of Mrs. Chadwick's, but hers are more like frozen metal. At least Mrs. Chadwick was nice once you got to know her. Professor Harriet Relz is always stiff and angry, and snapped at me when I asked about the grade I got on my test.

She gave me a sixty on my test, but she marked at least twenty-five points off for errors I didn't even make. I began to ask if my grade could be changed, since my average was down to a low B with the test grade, but Professor Relz said she was busy and that I could wait.

I sat down on one of her classroom chairs, covered with filth like graffiti (seriously, who trash talks a teacher on a _chair_?) and politely waited for about ten minutes. My bus was going to be leaving soon, and I wanted an early ride home, so I started pacing. Not a lot, just a bit, but enough for Professor Relz to notice. She yelled at me to get out because, according to the Juilliard student handbook, "students must treat all professors and fellow students with the utmost respect" and I had dishonored that through pacing. Pacing! Honestly, that woman is like a reincarnation of the Battleaxe, Mrs. Adler.

I left the classroom after a five-minute-long lecture about respect and modern kids and I'd just missed my bus by a few minutes. Waiting for my bus made me nervous, and I came to realize that it wasn't coming when it was fifteen minutes late. Note that I had been outside in the rain for all those minutes, patiently hoping for transportation that wasn't coming.

Apparently, from a call to the bus station, afternoon buses had been canceled because of the bad weather. That meant that I had no ride home and that I would have to walk for at least an hour. In a rainstorm, too.

So, that's how I got here: on a soaking sidewalk, drenched with rain and trying to get home, which is fairly difficult without a car. I do have a car, but it's in the shop because somebody else ruined the left taillight and part of the bumper. Thankfully, I don't have to pay. That would just be one more thing to add to my long list of burdens.

A silver 2010 Lexus IS drives next to me, and I can't help thinking, _Darcy's car._ Another thing about attending Juilliard while he's at Dartmouth is that we're not together. Of course, we haven't been together since I was a senior at Colonial. He was already at college, and everything began to fall apart. I broke up with him that December. It was my first Christmas without him.

I still miss him, like I have been for the past year. There's nobody out there like Darcy. Of course, I know that he's probably having the time of his life up at Dartmouth, and that he's long since forgotten and moved on. Darcy adored me when we were dating, but I honestly don't think there's anything special about me.

A lone raindrop falls and falls onto my jacket. It trickles down and onto my arm. Angrily, I swipe away at it, like it's the reason Darcy and I broke up. Darcy and I broke up. Darcy and I broke up. _Darcy and I broke up._ It took me forever to comprehend later; it felt like I had stepped into freezing water and I had no intention of leaving. He's not mine anymore. The cold realization is still painful to admit.

The Lexus is still driving alongside me, and I feel a chill go up my spine. Instead of feeling numb, I just feel electrified right now. Forcing myself to keep walking, I take a U-Turn and see if the driver is following me or if it's just a coincidence.

The Lexus turns around. I am internally screaming, but I don't let anything show. What do you do when a creepy car, which happens to looks exactly like the one your ex-boyfriend has, starts following you? We never covered this in drivers' ed.

I reach up to release my still-thick braid, hoping that this will help him my face, and the blonde hair piles around my shoulders. Yes, I still wear my hair like that. I think of it as an apology to Darcy. An apology for everything I did to him. I miss him.

Speaking of Darcy, I begin inspecting the car that looks just like his. It even looks familiar. Same long grey scratch on the right side that Darcy made when he was parking. The front bumper has the exact dent that I made in my junior year of high school when I hit a tree. Surprisingly, Darcy wasn't even mad that his car was damaged. He was just glad that I was okay. Now that I look back on it, maybe it wasn't that surprising.

The Lexus stops with a halt, but I can't see the driver because the car is on the left of me. That means that the driver is on the farther side. I can see that he or she doesn't have anybody in the passenger or back seat, and I hope that this is a good thing.

I'm too afraid to move. The street is empty. People are probably all at home because of the rainstorm. I can hear my heart beating quickly and loudly. Quickly, I turn so that I'm facing a store instead of the road. I tuck my hair behind my left ear, and the charm bracelet from the Christmas of my sophomore year jingles.

I cringe and hope it's not too loud. My level of anxiety skyrockets as I hear the slam of a car door. When I turn to run away, the person reaches out and touches my arm.

I hear a loud sigh. I hear myself sigh as well. I hear the shuffle of my feet as I turn around to face the stranger. I hear my gasp as I nearly drop my books and schoolwork. I hear his voice, a long, deep strong voice like rushing water from a fountain. I hear my utter surprise. I hear his voice, which sounds like soft chocolate brown eyes and curly brown hair tousled just right.

I hear him awkwardly pace around. I hear the pound of feet on the ground, like the footsteps of somebody's who's six feet and two and a half inches tall.

One thing I don't hear though, is the still-falling rain.


	2. Chapter 2-Golden

**This one-shot will be more focused on Cassidy's father. Disclaimer: I don't own the MDBC/its contents, Heather Vogel Frederick does. **

**Golden**

**Chloe's POV**

My older sister Cassidy stands at the front door. She's twenty-six and standing happily next to my Uncle Tristan, whereas I'm just a little kid of thirteen years old. The same age she was when I was born: not old enough to do anything fun, like stay up late or go to the mall alone, but just old enough to sit around and do boring, these-will-make-you-mature jobs like homework. And opening doors for anyone in need of a chauffeur like me.

I see Uncle Tristan wink at me with one of his dark midnight-blue eyes that I'm so jealous of, so I simply unlock the door, and he makes a big deal out of opening it for his wife, my sister, Cassidy Sloane. Cassidy's around five months pregnant (or is it six? I always forget) and Uncle Tristan worked out a deal with me where I let him do stuff for her.

I hope the baby is a girl, because it would be great to have a close cousin to have fun with, like a little sister. Cass and Courtney are great, but they're both married and are really busy all the time. I have some female cousins, though. Megan Berkeley (formerly Wong) is Cassidy's sister-in-law, and has twin daughters named Grace and Hannah. They're my age, so we're in the same grade, but we're not related by blood and it's not the same as having a sister that lives with you.

Cassidy stumbles into the living room and to the mantle. She smiles sadly and picks up her favorite photo, the one of her dad. He was named David Sloane, the stepfather that I never got to know. My birth dad is Stanley Kinkaid, who Mom married after her first husband died. Cassidy still goes to the graveyard all the time, and Courtney's been going with her for at least ten years.

Most people would find this creepy, but I don't. Cassidy and Courtney's dad is buried in a cemetery in California, where we used to live (I wasn't born yet, and Mom didn't know Stanley) but Cassidy just goes to the local graves, even though he isn't there. I go with them sometimes, when school and hockey don't interfere.

"Chicks with Sticks" has become a big hit in Concord, and they've had a girls' team at our school for years now. I'm not that good as hockey, not nearly as good as Cassidy is, but I'm still okay at it.

Cassidy and Courtney, along with our mom, Clementine all say that Dad would've adored me. I really wish I could have met him. I've seen pictures of him with everyone in our family, though, and his soft grey eyes and intense red hair match up with Cassidy's features perfectly.

The picture is back on the mantel now, and its silvery frame glints in the sunlight from the nearby window. It's the photograph Cassidy took a few weeks before the accident, when her Dad was still alive. They went to the beach (we lived in Cali at the time, remember?) and it turned into magic hour, which is what her dad called it when the sun got all soft and golden every day, and the lighting was perfect.

They're laughing, with the beach in the background, and Cassidy's long, tangled red hair is blowing in the wind like ripples in a pond. I see Cassidy smile weakly at the memory and wipe away a tear on her cheek.

"I wish…I wish my dad could've met so many people. I want him to know about the Chadwicks and the Hawthornes and the Wongs, and especially the Sloane-Kinkaids and the Berkeleys. I know he would've loved you, Chloe, and you too, Tris." She says, whispering.

Cass and Uncle Tristan spend a few hours over at our house picking up things for their apartment, but their eyes keep flickering over to the mantel. I wish I could've met her dad. My dad, Stanley Kinkaid, is extremely nice, with crinkly eyes and a great sense of humor, but it's still like I'm missing out on a part of her life.

As the sun sets into magic hour once again, I pull out the camera Uncle Tristan gave me for my thirteenth birthday a few months ago and take a few shots of the outside. It'll never compare to Cassidy's photo, but it's something, at least.

**Sorry this has taken so long; I've had **_**terrible**_** writer's block lately. Should I continue **_**It Rains Every Day**_** (first one-shot)? Say what you think in the reviews, thanks a million!**


	3. Chapter 3-It Rains Every Day pt2

**After lots of debating, I finally decided to keep continuing It Rains Every Day, even though it kind of kills the whole purpose of a one-shot. Oh, well! Disclaimer: MDBC, content, and its characters belong to Heather Vogel Frederick. **

**Jess's POV**

It Rains Every Day

I'm aware that he and I are standing face-to-face on an empty sidewalk with no cars driving down the street. Suddenly, I'm conscious of every detail around me, every little, insignificant thing would never be seen.

Unless someone took the time to notice grungy brown-and-grey color scheme of the bricks on the stores or the crack full of black rock-dust and greying pebbles in the sidewalk, nobody would pick up on it. Of course, I do, because being around Darcy is awkward enough, and I don't want to see the expression on his face. I half-hope he's not looking at me, and the other part of me wishes like crazy.

While I observe the absence of a sun in the sky, it comes to me that the rain isn't so bad after all. I don't particularly love it, but it's refreshing, at least. The gentle dewdrops flitter down and cover me.

"So, are you going to keep standing, or should I make you sit down?" Darcy asks out of the blue. I blush, like I did when I first started liking him. The only thing that keeps me from laughing is the awkwardness of the situation.

My ex-boyfriend, my first and only boyfriend, just popped up six months after we broke up, and I'm dying to apologize but I don't want to say the wrong words and hurt us even more than I already have.

I sigh and weakly mouthe "I'll sit", too nervous to say anything, and Darcy looks away. I think I see him smile, but I can't tell. The whisper-speak is something we used to do back when we were dating, when we didn't need to speak. I miss it.

Parked near the bookstore I'm in front of is a furnished wooden bench, covered with streaky raindrop marks and easily big enough for three or four people. I dismiss my anxiety and sit down. Darcy looks around with his big brown eyes, like somebody's hunting him down, and sits down next to me.

My head is already reciting the apology I wrote him after the break-up set in. It wasn't a real thing that I set out to do, the words just started fitting into place. It's the feeling Emma gets when she writes, that the work was meant to exist and she doesn't need to force the words; they just come together, intricate and detailed, but true.

Darcy is on my right, and I want to face him and talk to him about everything I have bottled up inside of the, even though I don't. Fear is rippling through me like a white surrender flag on a battlefield. Should I be this stiff and afraid at a reunion meeting with my ex? I hope not.

If Darce went from Dartmouth to Juilliard and even met up with me here, I might as well not take it for granted. I've done that in the past, and look where it got me. Lost, bewildered, and confused instead of happy and content.

Mustering up all my courage, I talk to Darcy. I really, really hope it doesn't become one of those moments where I wish life had an undo button. I've gone through plenty of that during the last six months: thinking about my outcomes with him, had I acted, spoken, or thought differently.

"Hi." It's simple and casual, in a soft, trembling voice that I never thought I'd go through again, ever since my mother returned from New York. Fear is paralyzing, and it's like you're being electroshocked by it constantly. I've been so scared and alone this semester that I've hardly said a word to anybody other than my Concord friends.

Of course, I really don't know anybody at Juilliard, so that means mute. Yes, I know my classmates. I know their names and we're friendly towards each other, but it's not like we go to movies and parties, or study together, and things like that. I used to have that kind of fun with Emma, Cassidy, Megan, and even Becca and Sophie.

When Darcy doesn't reply for a few moments, I fluster extremely, inwardly, silently. My nervous fingers fumble and probe for the left part of my neck. I take my pulse. Is it too fast? Is it supposed to be this fast? I don't know. I just picked it up. The pulse-thing, I mean. I feel the beat quicken. I try to take deep breaths. To calm down. It isn't working. I mope over Darcy. Like I have been. For the last six months. Rain lands on my extended arm. I brush the drops away with my too-long sleeve.

I just don't know what to do. Life doesn't have guidelines for these situations. I wish it did. Darcy probably hates me. It's all my fault. The silence pounds like a boulder on me. I can't take the pressure. I know I'm seen as this perfect, happy, fairytale girl by some, but inside I'm crashing down. They see the good grades and the blonde hair and the scholarship to Juilliard, but there's a lot they don't see, too.

"You okay?" He finally asks, and I feel the pressure and internal stress dissolve away into a watery mess. I'm pretty sure I'm shaking and shuddering by now, but I don't notice. This doesn't feel like life. It feels like some dream, where I don't wake up.

An overwhelming wave of mixed emotions, scattered like sand on the seashore, comes right at me and hits head-on. Rain pours perpetually, and I'm pretty sure I look like a mess right now.

"Y-yeah. I'm fine. Just a little cold. And wet."

If I had known it would rain today, I would've brought a thicker jacket. The one I have on now is simply for aesthetics; its material is delicate and not durable in the least. I am left with no real protection on a rainy New York day.

Darcy takes off his navy blue jacket and drapes it over my arms with a soft smile. I really miss that smile. _Foolish, stupid girl,_ I chide. _Why'd you ever let go of him?_

But the taunt is quieter and my voice feels louder, because he's here.

"Thanks."

"No problem. It's the least I could do for you."

"Pay you back?"

"You don't have to."

"But I _want_ to."

"If you say so."

I put on his jacket, and, with a flourish, we get into his car. I take the wheel. The rain pelts Darcy's windshield at first, but it quickly vanishes as I keep driving. This is nice.

I'm pretty glad I missed my bus after all.


	4. Chapter 4-Mystery

**AU where Darcy's more dark, protective, and rebellious and Emma's quieter and more innocent. Stewart and Emma meet in the newspaper room. **

**Disclaimer: MDBC, content, and its characters belong to Heather Vogel Frederick. **

Mystery

**Stewart's POV**

I look across the room, past the many bookshelves of articles and walls of printed newspapers at the new girl at our weekly newspaper meeting, the first one of the school year. I haven't seen her anywhere before, especially not here.

She seems familiar, though, with short, characteristic brown hair, coiled perfectly, and soft chocolate eyes tucked behind glasses like the ones perched on my nose. Have I met or even noticed this mystery girl? It's like we knew each other in a past life.

Maybe my sister Becca knows her. Are they in the same grade? I honestly have no clue, but it could be true. Maybe the girl's a year younger than me, and a year older than Becca, or she's in my grade, or maybe she's new to Concord. Anything is possible. Whatever her age, I feel a need to know more about the mystery that just showed up at our newspaper meeting.

Whoever she is, this girl doesn't acknowledge me in the least, which half-pleases but half-disappoints me at the same time. I kind of want her to look at me, and I'd look at her if it wasn't so awkward.

Then again, she probably wants to be left alone, and I don't want her stalking me. Not that she would, because I'm not too popular.

Our regular teacher isn't here because of a journalism-related trip to Washington DC, so there's a substitute today. I think his name is Mr. Crandall? Perhaps that's the name. Anyway, he's very sociable and kind, much unlike some of the subs I've had.

He takes a clipboard, covered with pages of notes and messages about messages and articles, and begins to announce assignments for the new paper.

"Chadwick?" Mr. Crandall says loudly, over the buzz of chitchatting girls and boys present at the meeting.

"Yes?" I see his eyes glaze over the room as Becca and I both perk up and speak simultaneously. I wonder which one of has gotten their first assignment of the year.

"Sorry, _which _Chadwick?" I sheepishly ask. "There are two."

Mr. Crandall smiles sympathetically and says, "I'm looking for _Rebecca _Chadwick. Sorry for any confusion I may have caused."

My sister casually pulls a strand of golden hair away from her face, twirls it around her finger gingerly, and says, "I'm Becca Chadwick," in her most sophisticated, profound voice, the one I've heard as she practices dozens of times in front of the bathroom mirror at home.

"Okay, Becca, you're going to be working with Thomas Vanderbilt on an article about the possible adoption of school uniforms here at this fine school. They're still weighing the pros and cons, so we need a persuasive article, around five hundred words, giving a definite yes or no." Mr. Crandall says, smiling.

I inwardly laugh at Becca's face when Mr. Crandall says 'five hundred words', like it's a foreign language or an ancient code. Becca's not too smart, and she doesn't care about her grades at all. The best grade she has in a curricular class is a 73 in science. I don't understand how we're related sometimes. Okay, maybe all the time.

Becca's world is filled with her Fab Four friends, shopping for just about anything, going to the mall, and boys. Plenty of boys. Mustn't forget the infamous Zach Norton or the strange, annoying Third Bartlett (or Cranfield Bartlett III, whatever floats her boat). And don't, at all costs, leave out Darcy Hawthorne. If only she knew what he was like at school.

Thomas and Becca meet and begin to plan the article: who's going to edit, take photos, interview, and all that jazz. I can already tell that Becca's trying to act innocent and naïve in front of her partner, because she won't stop fluttering her thick Maybelline lashes and puckering her lips slightly, like an immature rosebud would.

Meanwhile, Mr. Crandall continuously calls out varying assignments throughout the class, and the pairs and triplets of students clan together and start scheduling everything to do with the article.

For some reason, I haven't been assigned to anything yet, and this agitates me greatly.

After our substitute finishes talking, he flicks a nervous glance over to me and to mystery girl.

"Are you sure I didn't call your name?"

"Positive." I reply instantly. The girl next to me hesitates, then nods once quickly.

Mr. Crandall looks over the list twice, squinting at its pages as if it holds the meaning of life, and traces his finger down the paper multiple times. He murmurs students' names under his breath and is surprised when he manages to match every person's name to their face.

"I don't really know why, but it seems that you two haven't been assigned to anything. Normally I'd ask your regular teacher, but I hear there's a huge convention today for the New England schools and I wouldn't want to interrupt anything important." Mr. Crandall's words leave me bewildered.

"So, um, what do we do until then?" The girl's voice shocks me because she hasn't spoken once this meeting. It's soft and whispery, just the way I'd imagined it, like the color of wind.

"Um…just get to know each other and be ready for any articles later on." This surprises me, because it's such a simple solution for such a complicated class. However, I'm not complaining. In fact, I'm eager to get to know the new girl. If she's new, that is. You never know.

From what I'm picking up, this girl is pretty quiet. As a fellow shy person, I can relate well. I know that somebody has to make the first step, otherwise the journey never starts.

_Okay, okay, keep it simple, Chadwick. Contained. Reserved. Casual. Stay casual. Don't be overeager. Be simple. Relaxed. Calm. Serene. Be cool. I am cool. _

_Then again, don't be a total airhead. Be intellectual, but not too much. Not too simple that she thinks you're a total Neanderthal, but not too bookish, either. _

"H-hi." I'm relieved to hear that my voice doesn't change to an unpleasant crack at the end. "I'm Stewart Chadwick. What's your name?"

"Me?" The girl says in the same tone as before.

"Yes, you." I reply, smiling.

Mystery girl tenderly pushes her glasses up with one finger and says, "Nice to meet you. I'm Emma, Emma Hawthorne."

I'm sure a scared, deer-in-the-headlights look begins to replace my friendly expression, because Emma (I still can't believe I know her name) leans in, frowns, and says, "Um, is anything wrong?"

One long gulp after the other passes down my throat and I hurriedly say, "Quick, off-topic question. Are you an only child?"

"No, I have a brother. What about you, Stewart?"

"One sister. Becca Chadwick."

"You're Becca's_ brother_?! How?"

"I still don't understand how we're related."

"Figures, who _would_?"

Illusions race through my mind. It couldn't be. She couldn't be. It's just not possible. Is it? I have no clue. There's no way it could be true.

"Okay, another random question. Any relation to Darcy Hawthorne?"

I'm faking a smile, but inside I'm bracing for impact. She certainly looks enough like him, with the same curly brown hair and chocolate-colored brown eyes, to be his sister or cousin or something. I'm hoping for cousin, as in distant cousin, like twice-removed or something, or for no relation at all. This girl is too nice to have anything to do with _that_ guy.

Before you judge me for, well, judging Darcy, let me just defend myself by saying that Darcy's dangerous. He's the terror of the grade. The kind of person that plays by their own rules, and finds it normal to always skip class or come in late, or unprepared. If I picked a single work to describe Darcy Hawthorne, I'd say he was…uncontrolled.

And to have this tame girl, this serene, shy, innocent little thing be his relative? I bet Becca and I have more in common! So, I cross my fingers tightly. And my toes. And my legs. I need some luck; and if Emma's his relative, so does she.

Emma leans forward, looks to the left and right like a little girl telling a secret, and groans. She admits it. "He's my older brother."

And with those four simple words, everything changes. Things have taken a turn for the worse. It'll be hard to get to know Emma without having to get to know Darcy, and I bet word will spread over at their house. As much as I like Emma, I can't stand Darcy. We're two different kinds of people. He's wild and crazy, just so frustratingly fast, the person who'd do anything to run faster or jump higher or tackle harder, and I'm not.

I'm quiet. I like literature and poems and, well, feminine things like cooking and cleaning and working. I'm a worker bee kind of person. Darcy's more like a queen bee. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Looks like there'll be trouble at the hive.


End file.
